Entranced
by chunkeymonkey
Summary: The gang investigates a *sticky* murder, while Olive wrestles with a man from her past.
1. Chapter 1

Young Olive Snook leaned against the top rung of the rickety old fence, watching as the sun rose on the horizon, casting an orangey red glow over the field of green grass that stretched out before her. The warmth from the sun collided with the remaining cool air from the dawn, creating a rolling fog that shrouded the dark, slowly moving figures in the pasture.

"They're beautiful." Olive gasped as the creatures came into view. Three chestnut brown stallions and one foal stomped and snorted, flicking their tails as they grazed on the dew soaked grass.

**At this moment, Olive Snook was 13 years, 8 months, 10 days, 6 hours, 5 minutes old. A lover of horses since before she could even remember, young Olive had begged and pleaded for years for the chance to learn to ride, for her biggest aspiration was to be a jockey like the ones she saw on TV, smiling atop their winning horses adorned with flowered wreaths. She thought the sight was quite amazing indeed. And one early summer morning Mr. Snook consented to the whim of his fair haired daughter—since money was of little worry in the Snook household—and he purchased a special gift.**

"Which one is mine?"

"That one over there—the foal with the cream speckles on the flanks." Her father said proudly, clearly pleased he was able to afford such an extravagance.

"He's gorgeous." Olive swooned, captivated by the animal. It was on the small side—not runt material—but rather compact and sturdy looking. The horse was a perfect fit for the tiny Olive. "When will I be able to ride him?"

Mr. Snook laughed. "Oh, he's far too young for that right now." Mr. Snook shook his head. "Besides, first things first my dear."

Olive's Father pointed towards a sprawling building across the field, a building that had gone unnoticed by young Olive in her complete fascination with her new horse, a horse she had already decided on naming the most delicious name—Pie.

"You will take your riding lessons there after school when the horse is old enough. No daughter of mine is going to sit on top of a wild beast without being properly trained." Mr. Snook shook his head sternly. "No Olive, a horse isn't a toy—it's a responsibility. One cannot go hopping on one all willy nilly."

**Young Olive nodded; part of her could hear her father, while the other half was miles away, sitting atop her precious Pie and galloping wildly into the great beyond—willy nilly or not. And as she took in the large building looming in the distance she could not contain the pure joy in her heart; for she knew that it was where all of her dreams were to come true.**

**Little did little Olive Snook know, it would also provide the biggest of nightmares.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Emerson Cod slid into his usual booth as he did on most days, to order a piece of pie and discuss the latest case with the Pie Maker. As soon as his behind hit the vinyl waitress Olive Snook appeared at his side.**

"Hiya." She greeted him in her usual sunny manner, tapping her pencil against her pad in an erratic fashion.

"Hey." He grumbled in response, his eyes searching for sight of Ned. He spotted him bustling about in the kitchen. "Tell Ned I'm here and I need to speak with him."

Olive's eyes lit up. "Ooh you have a new case huh? How exciting! Whats the 4-1-1?"

"No, no case." He lied. "Just need to talk to him about, uh, _stuff_."

The sparkle faded from Olive's eyes and her tiny shoulders sagged the way they always did when she was not included in the trio's adventures. "Oh."

"I'll take a piece of blueberry pie while I'm waiting though." Emerson pointed to the chalkboard on the wall where it had been listed as _Today's Special_.

"Sure thing." Olive managed a smile and made a great point to scribble his order down on her pad before flouncing off towards the kitchen. When she returned, however, he wondered if he should have just bypassed the pie altogether and gone straight to talk with Ned.

"I said I wanted blueberry—this is boysenberry." Emerson pushed the plate across the table and scrunched his nose. "_Boysenberry_." He repeated for effect, hoping his displeasure was not lost on the perky blond waitress in front of him.

"Oh I know." Olive nodded, sliding into the empty seat across from him.

"Blueberry, Olive." He groaned. "All I asked for was blueberry."

"Oh, this is much better." Olive winked.

"_Blueberry_." Emerson growled slowly, like a tiger staring down its prey.

"This is much better." Olive smiled widely, her eyes betraying the confidence she possessed on being able to discern the best pie of the day. "Besides," She shrugged. "We're out of blueberry."

Emerson rolled his eyes. "Then why didn't you tell me when I ordered?"

"Oh," Olive sighed, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. "You looked so happy at the thought of blueberry pie that I didn't have the heart to ruin things."

**Emerson Cod bit his tongue. By now he should have been used to the quirky ways of the Pie Hole waitress named Olive, but he was constantly surprised at the ways she managed to exasperate him on a daily basis**. **Begrudgingly he took a forkful of the pie. As soon as it hit his tongue he knew she was right—it was delicious. But he would never let on.**

"Can I help you?" He grumbled, staring at Olive who was staring at him right back. "Or shouldn't you be saying that to other people? Ya know, since you're the _waitress_. And you're at _work_." Emerson hastily shoveled another bite into his mouth. "So maybe you should go do that then—work." He gestured his fork back towards counter where the only two customers were sipping coffee and reading newspapers lazily. "And leave me be."

"I am on my break." She replied, causing Emerson to groan. "So I thought we could, er, chat."

Emerson raised his eyebrows. The only thing Olive ever wanted to chat about was the Pie maker. "Listen, I ain't gonna be the Dear Abby to your little Miss Lovelorn anymore, got it?"

"Oh no. No." Olive waved her hands and shook her head, leaning in closer. "Trust me, this has nothing to do with—_that_." Her eyes flicked back towards the kitchen, to where Ned was clearly visible through the alcove, busy rolling out dough. "I need your expertise. Your P.I. prowess."

"And what makes you think I have the time to help you?"

"You just said you have no case."

Even though Emerson scolded himself for lying he couldn't help but be intrigued. "My expertise I see." He purred slowly, enjoying the expression of anticipation on her face as he drew it out. "And how much is my expertise worth to you?"

"I was thinking more like a favor?"

"I am not in the business of favors." Emerson crossed his arms in a huff. "I am in the business of getting paid."

"Fine, you can have a free piece of boysenberry pie later and consider that payment." Olive smiled triumphantly, eyeing the now empty plate. "I see how much you liked it."

**Emerson Cod was secretly thrilled at the prospect of another piece of boysenberry pie, even though he would never let on.**

"Fine. What's the problem?" He asked gruffly.

Olive fidgeted in her seat. It was quite clear she was uncomfortable talking about whatever it was that she wanted to talk about. "Well, the other day I got this in the mail." She pulled a postcard from the pocket of her waitress' smock.

"Sounds like a case for the Postal Service, not a P.I." Emerson barked as Olive shoved the piece of mail into his hand. The cover of the postcard now clutched in his hand revealed a sprawling, formidable complex with the words _Trask's Track and Horse Course_ emblazoned across the top."This is a horse track." He stated blandly.

**"**That is not just any old track. That's the place where I trained to be a jockey. I spent some of the best times of my life there." Olive immediately perked up. "A horse is a horse of course of course when it runs round Trask's Track and Horse Course of course!" Olive sang out, bopping her hands on top of the table. "That was the unofficial track theme song." Olive blushed as Emerson shot her a look. "That I made up. Very unofficial."

Emerson flipped the card over. There was no return address on it, just the phrase "_emevollliwuoy_". Emerson read it out loud, doing his best to pronounce the garbled writing which had been scribbled across the card several times. "What is this, a bunch of gobbleygook?" He handed the card back to her. "I am a private investigator not a code breaker."

"I know that." Olive snatched the card away from him and tucked it back safely in her pocket.

"What is it exactly that you want me to do here? Some wacko sends you a postcard full of crazy pig Latin and you want me to investigate?"

"Somebody has sent me one of those cards everyday this past week, each with that so called goobleygook!" Olive exclaimed.

"One of these has been sent to you everyday?"

Olive nodded. "Yeah and I'm pretty sure I know who it is."

"Care to elaborate."

"No." Olive stated simply, much to Emerson's chagrin.

"This isn't gonna be another crazy-mother-of-a-dead-but-not-really-dead-jockey-gonna-come-kill-you thing, is it?" He groaned, remembering the debacle of John Joseph Jacobs.

"No, nothing like that." Olive's eyes searched out the small curtained window beside them, scanning the street nervously. "It's just someone I don't want to find me."

"Well it seems like he's already found you."

"I know, but he can't _find me_ find me." Olive pleaded. "What I mean is I don't want him popping up unexpectedly. I want you to get to him before he gets to me."

This all sounded quite serious, and suddenly Emerson Cod felt a surge of protectiveness for the exasperating waitress. "Is this guy dangerous?"

"Well…"Olive was interrupted as Ned, wearing an apron covered in flour, approached them in the booth.

"Olive?" Ned asked his thick brow furrowed. He turned his head towards the two customers at the counter who were now looking up from their papers and clutching their coffee cups, their eyes searching for assistance. "I think we have customers who need some help."

"Right on that boss." Olive beamed and Ned cast the two a curious look as he stalked off back to the kitchen. As Olive began to scoot from her seat Emerson's arm shot out across the table and halted her.

"You didn't answer me."

"No. He's not." She sighed, and for the first time Emerson got the impression that she was more annoyed than afraid, and that made him glad. A much as Olive irritated him, he didn't wish her any mortal harm. "Just get him to stop harassing me, okay? Whatever you have to do—do it." Olive slid out of the seat, stood up and adjusted her smock.

"Uh, you forgetting something?" Emerson called as Olive walked away. "Like a name?"

As Olive turned around, her face went pale and her eyes narrowed, as if she was sickened to say the words. "Trask. Trevor Trask Jr."


	3. Chapter 3

**Later that same day, after the mysterious conversation between Emerson Cod and Olive Snook, the Pie Maker was informed of the latest case he was to investigate, the details of which surprised him greatly**.

"What?" Ned blinked, surprised. Emerson, who was seated across from him in their usual booth, looked back at him quietly with what Ned could only describe as a look of glee in his eyes. "He was," Ned dropped his voice as Olive walked past them to greet a couple who had just entered the Pie Hole. "Tarred and feathered?" He whispered his voice cracking.

Emerson nodded. "Yep, found in the middle of the street, tarred and feathered, and naked as a jaybird. Heh, jay_bird_…"He let out a macabre sort of laugh. "Man I kill myself sometimes." He shook his head, amused by the unintentional wordplay he had made.

Ned grimaced. "We've investigated some pretty sick things before, but this is positively medieval."

"Ooh what's medieval?" A cheery voice asked and Emerson looked up to see the front door closing behind Charlotte Charles as she entered the Pie Hole.

Emerson groaned. "This is strictly P.I and Pie Maker business. Business for people whose jobs begin with the letter P. So you," He gestured towards her. "Need to leave. Scat!"

"I once had a job painting watercolors for a local gift shop," Chuck called over her shoulder as she breezed over to the counter to unload the armful of shopping bags she was carrying. She came back and plopped down next to Emerson, prompting him to scoot over till he was uncomfortably pressed against the wall. With a flourish she whipped off her wide brimmed sunhat and placed it on the table. "Mostly still life's. Cheese and fruit make lovely subjects." She pointedly eyed Emerson. "So there, a profession that begins with a P—_painter._ Oh and scat? _Really_? I am not a cat."

"That's not….."

"So tell me about the case?" Chuck asked eagerly, interrupting any chance Emerson had to protest.

"Emerson wants to investigate the tarring and feathering of a man."

Chuck's eyes grew wide. "Ooh, sounds exciting! But technically _not _medieval—even though it has its roots from that time, it was more of an American practice popular with the early colonists." She stated matter-of-factly.

Ned found himself chuckling; he still got a kick out of the fact that someone who had died quite the tragic death herself could have such fun investigating the tragic deaths of others.

"What do we know about this guy—besides the fact that he's now all sticky and feathery?" She asked.

**The facts were these: A Mr. Herman Hawk, 39 years, 5 months, 24 days, 22 hours, 15 minutes, was attacked while walking home after attending a party with several of his friends, for which he provided the entertainment of the night. Or rather the partygoers, who were hypnotized by Mr. Hawk—a licensed hypnotist who regularly helped chain smokers and overeaters—were the entertainment as they pranced around the party convinced they were anything from ballerinas, to mimes, to sixties soul singers.**

**In the light of the morning, his body was found in the middle of his neighborhood street covered in a thick layer of black tar and yellow bird feathers.**

"So what are we waiting for?" Chuck grabbed her hat from the table and plopped in on her head. "Let's go to the morgue!"

"_We_?" Emerson eyed her disapprovingly.

"It's pretty slow," Ned shrugged, ignoring Emerson's objection and looking around the room. The only customers had picked up an order and left, leaving Olive behind the counter humming dreamily as she wiped down the pie display case. "And I'm sure Olive can handle things here for a few hours."

"The sooner we go the sooner we solve this and the sooner you get paid." Chuck offered, knowing just what to say to Emerson who looked reluctant to leave knowing that she would be coming along.

Emerson smiled. "The dead girl makes a good point. Lets go."

As the trio headed for the door Olive caught sight of them and rushed over to tap Emerson on the shoulder.

"You said you didn't have a case?" She scrunched her face up in a most dissatisfied manner. "I knew it! I had a feeling you were lying to me." She pouted.

"Uh, it just came up this minute." He lied. "That's the biz—very unpredictable." Emerson turned his back to her and immediately felt himself being stopped by a strong tug to the bottom of his jacket.

"You're still gonna…um," Olive saw Ned and Chuck's eyes on her as they turned around in the doorway, waiting for Emerson. "Finish that little, uh, favor for me?" She whispered. "I mean, even with being busy on a case and all?"

Emerson nodded. "Yes, I won't forget." He whispered back hurriedly. "Trevor Trask Jr. Got it."

Olive looked relieved. "Thanks."

**The trio wound their way to the coroner's office, leaving Olive Snook alone in the Pie Hole. Busy signing a song she had made up about sunflowers and sweeping the kitchen, she never noticed the tiny doorbell tinkle—as tiny doorbells do—as the door it hung from opened slowly, and the mysterious stranger that opened it slipped a familiar postcard onto the counter and left.**


	4. Chapter 4

Ned grimaced as the steel slab that contained the mortal remains of Herman Hawk was rolled out unceremoniously by Emerson. No matter how normal it was for him to see—and interact with—the dead on a regular basis, he still could not get over the more gruesome aspects that came with the job. And staring back at the stiff, it was quite a gruesome site.

The man had been reported being found stark naked, but it was almost impossible to tell for the body was covered head to toe in thick, black tar which when applied boiling hot to the skin had stripped away large chunks of flesh, leaving pieces of it mixed in with the tar and bright yellow feathers.

"That is," Chuck blanched from the putrid smell of burnt flesh and tar. "Disgusting."

Ned nodded.

"Well, go on now." Emerson prodded. "Do your thang."

**Slowly Ned reached out towards the body, and after a second of hesitation his finger pressed down onto the tip of the deceased's nose, one of the few visible body parts not obscured by the tar**.

Suddenly the man came alive; the trio stepped back as his head lurched upward and he began to couch violently, a cascade of yellow feathers shooting from his mouth. After a moment he let out a groan and his eyes opened slowly; the whites of his eyes stood in stark contrast to the darkness of his tar covered face, making him look even more grotesque.

Ned clicked the timer on his stopwatch and stepped forward.

"Oh man. That really burns—feels like I'm wearing a mummy costume here." Mr. Hawk moaned suddenly. "Hey who are you guys? Do you know who did this to me? I'm gonna kill them!"

"Hello Mr. Hawk, I'm Ned. This is Emerson and that's Chuck."

"Hi." Chuck smiled while Emerson simply shook his head at the time they wasted making introductions.

"See," Ned continued hurriedly. "You can't actually kill who did this to you because you're dead. And we're here to find out who did this to you." Ned looked at his watch—20 seconds.

"I am so sticky, and why I am covered in feathers?"

"You were found in your street tarred and feathered. Do you know who did this to you?" Ned checked again—15 seconds.

"Oh yeah, I remember now. I was walking home from a friend's party. My wife Harriet had stayed behind with the car. It was such a great night to walk and I love to walk…"

He began rambling and Ned quickly cut him off. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"The last thing I remember was hearing someone cluck like a chicken."

"Cluck like a chicken?" Chuck asked incredulously.

"Yeah it was the strangest thing."

Ned was getting nervous now—10 seconds. "So you didn't see anyone?"

"Nah—got me from behind. Next thing I remember was feeling hot—very hot. And a funny smell." He slowly raised his arm. "Musta been the tar."

There was only five seconds left and Ned felt like he was getting nowhere. "Is there anyone who wanted to wish you harm?"

"No. I help people for a living!" Mr. Hawk was now upset. "I do good things! I cure them from addiction and despair! No one would want to hurt me."

**The Pie Maker was now out of time. And without gaining any useful information he reached out a second time and sent Herman Hawk back into eternal peace.**

"Well that didn't help." Emerson grumbled. "But whoever killed him sure has a sick sense of humor—clucking like a chicken while you tar and feather someone? That's hardcore."

Ned furrowed his brow. "He said he helped people, that he cured them of their addictions. Could the culprit be someone he cured through hypnosis that he didn't really cure?"

"And _this_ is their revenge?" Chuck piped up. "Sounds a bit extreme to me."

"Yeah but there are all sorts of wackos and nutjobs out there running around." Emerson laughed. "Who knows what one would do if they spend a fortune to be cured through hypnosis and it didn't work."

"I think we should talk to the wife before jumping to any conclusions." Chuck said sensibly. "It very well could have been someone at that party he was walking home from—someone who knew he was alone and vulnerable."

"Yeah the perfect opportunity to be attacked." Emerson said thoughtfully.

"So, let's go." Chuck headed for the door and Ned and Emerson followed suit. As they left the cold room of the morgue, the coroner looked up from his desk where he was clearly busy playing a game of Solitaire.

"Mmmhmm." He mumbled in their direction and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

**This prompted Emerson to mumble something incoherent—but almost certainly vulgar—under his breath, step forward and hand the man a crisp fifty dollar bill.**

"Mmmhmmm." The man nodded and slipped it casually into his pocket. And without another word, or mumble, the man went back to playing cards and the three of them went off to find Mrs. Harriet Hawk.


	5. Chapter 5

Olive kicked the shoes from her tired feet and plopped down onto her bed. The Pie Maker had called a few hours before and said to close up shop early, that they were going to be out longer than he had anticipated. Normally Olive would feel overlooked, not being included in the group's adventure, but she had other things weighing heavily on her mind.

One thing in particular.

When she had cleaned up for the evening, dutifully wiping down the counter, she found yet another postcard from her past. And even though she had tried to put this part of her past far, far, far behind her, staring at it brought back a flood of memories—most of which she had tried to forget.

Staring at the postcard Olive found herself back in time; she could smell the leather of the horse's saddle, feel the caress of her jockey silks against her skin, and hear the drone of the voice she hated most in the entire world.

**Olive Snook was 20 years, 5 months, 13 days, 10 hours, 7 minutes old. Since the first day her beloved horse was old enough to ride, she had trained hard. Her dream was to be a jockey, and through nothing but sheer will and determination she had quickly become the top amateur jockey in the state, an accomplishment that did not go unnoticed.**

**It also did not hurt to be young, beautiful and blonde. So naturally, Olive Snook attracted a lot of admirers, from fellow jockeys to stable hands. But none was as smitten as a Mr. Trevor Trask Jr., the son of Mr. Trevor Trask Sr., the owner of Trask's Track and Horse Course. But Olive saw him as more of a nuisance than a possible suitor. **

**Even though Olive knew he was harmless, his smile was more of a sneer and he possessed a kind of false bravado and smarmy swagger. Everything from his weak appearance—she figured a strong breeze could blow him over—to his beady eyes, monotone voice, and his insistence on wearing a green bowtie no matter the occasion, made her skin crawl.**

Olive threw the card across the room, visibly upset. She had asked Emerson to find him before he found her, but it was obvious it was much too late. He had already found out where she worked and had snuck in right under her nose to leave another postcard greeting. The thought that he was out there, lurking nearby sight unseen, sent chills down her spine. With a sigh she flopped backwards and sprawled herself out on her bed. Staring up at the ceiling—the only space in her apartment not decorated in a horse theme—she found herself thinking once again about her past.

**Trevor Trask Jr. was a strange one indeed, though one could not say that he was one to give up easily. He would show up everyday at the stables, try to impress her with his knowledge of anything equine—though it was apparent from his unwillingness to go anywhere near a horse that he was terrified of the animal—and ask her out on a date, to which she would decline. Things continued on in this manner for weeks until one day while out riding she found her feelings, like her horse Pie, took a most unexpected turn.**

Olive could still remember the day as if it was yesterday. She wondered why you could remember the worst moments in your life just as well, if not better, as the best ones—although at the time she did not consider it to be the worst. No, at the time it seemed like the most glorious day in her life.

She remembered taking her horse for a lap around the track early in the morning before another soul had risen, as she often did. Everything was normal and unspectacular until the moment Pie strangely veered off course. Galloping wildly and not heeding Olive's commands Pie headed back to the stables, directly towards Trevor Trask Jr., who seemed to be waiting for them as if he knew they were coming. Olive had little time to worry over her horse's strange behavior, for she suddenly felt quite strange herself.

For as soon as she saw Trevor her normal reaction upon seeing him—revulsion—was gone. It was replaced by an overpowering need to jump from her mount and rush into his arms. So, after slowing Pie to a stop, that's exactly what he did.

**As he held her in his lanky arms a symphony swelled in her heart. A romantic ballad that chorused over and over a single word: Trevor. She had no idea what had taken over her, as only a day before she cringed at the sight of him. She could only describe the feeling as being "entranced".**

Olive felt herself gag at the thought. The sudden love—or more like infatuation—she felt for the man was inexplicable and all consuming, and grew the more she was with him, until after only two weeks they were engaged. Even now she could not find a reason to explain it, but it made her sick to think that she had lost her senses so completely and almost married a man she detested. And now that man was back, and no matter his reason for suddenly making an appearance in her life, she knew she had to stay far, far away from him lest she lose herself once more.


	6. Chapter 6

**As Ned stared at Harriet Hawk he realized she had made an eerily appropriate choice in marrying a man with the surname Hawk—may he rest in peace—as her appearance was strikingly similar to that of the bird with the same name.**

Harriet was an older woman; her hair was black, except for a thick grey strip running straight down the center, and pulled tight away from her face. Her eyes were close set, quite tiny and almost black in appearance, and her rather large nose resembled a beak. Ned felt terrible, judging the woman's looks while she was mourning the death of her husband, and he quickly turned his gaze down to the carpet.

"Once again Ma'am," Chuck continued in a soothing voice. It was always nice to have Chuck come on trips like these, as Ned never knew what to say in these situations, and often Emerson was too brash and ended up upsetting someone. "We are so very sorry for your loss. And we are determined to find out who did this to Herman and bring them to justice."

The woman let out a stifled sob and blew her nose hard into a hankie. Chuck, who was sitting next to her, placed a consoling arm around her shoulder while Ned shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The room they were sitting in was a type of study, slash living room, and the walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Ned scanned the various covers; there was everything there from books on the art of hypnotism, psychology textbooks, books on Freud, even_ Dreams for Dummies_. A desk in the corner had a book lying open on it, its pages dog eared. It was probably the last book Mr. Hawk had been reading—the thought saddened him.

"I hate to be so forward," Ned said suddenly. "But is there anyone you know who might have had a vendetta or a cause to harm your husband?"

Harriet flinched at the suggestion. "No—not at all. Herman helped people for a living, he was a good man! I don't know why anyone would want to harm a hair on his head!" She sobbed, echoing the same statements Mr. Hawk had said himself. She blew her nose into her hankie again making an awful noise.

"I know it's hard," Chuck said softly. "But if there is the slightest chance anyone wanted to see him hurt, we need to know."

Harriet hiccupped, dabbing the tears from her eyes. "I, I don't know why. I still don't know why anyone would harm my Herman!" Suddenly she stood up and made her way over to the desk in the corner and picked up a picture frame. When she came back she placed it in Ned's hand. "Look at him," She said and Ned stared back at the picture in his hand. It was a black and white picture of Mr. Hawk; he was almost unrecognizable—not being covered in tar and all—he was younger, wearing thick glasses, and had a look of a dignified air about him. "My Herman was a licensed psychotherapist who specialized in hypnotism to cure people. He cured people of addictions and phobias. He was a good man who spent his life trying to make others' lives better."

Ned realized they weren't going to get anywhere with this line of questioning— the woman was racked by grief and not thinking clearly. "We have reason to suspect that it may have been a guest at the party you two attended." Ned said carefully as not to upset her more. "He was attacked shortly after leaving it."

"The party?"

"Yes, we need a list of everyone who was there. Just to be sure." Chuck added.

Harriet looked reluctant, but nodded in agreement. "Fine. But you won't find anyone there who wished him harm. That was a party with _friends_." She reached for her purse, pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper and began scribbling away. "Here," She handed the slip of paper to Chuck. "I think you're chasing the wrong lead, as you P.I's would say. If you ask me I think it was just some young hooligans or a robbery gone wrong. No one would intentionally harm my Herman." After a moment she stood up and pointed towards the door. "Now if you don't mind, I have funeral plans to make."

**So with a respectful goodbye the trio headed out the door and down the drive to the waiting car, a list of possible supects in hand**.

Emerson shook his head. "Man, that's broad is in denial."

"Excuse me?" Chuck caught up to him and swiftly whapped him on the back with her purse. "That woman is in mourning over her dead husband." She argued, clearly offended. "It's obvious she loved him so much that's its difficult for her to realize that someone could have hated him just as much."

"But hooligans? A robbery gone bad?" Emerson looked back toward the house.

"What are you thinking?" Ned asked as he unlocked the car, reading Emerson's face.

"That's she's covering her tracks." Emerson said haughtily as he slid into the back seat of Ned's car. "That maybe she did it—or had someone do it for her—and is trying to throw us off the scent."

"I don't know." Ned took a seat behind the wheel and looked back at him in the rearview mirror. "She doesn't seem like the type. She seems like a nice ole' bird—er," Ned choked. "Uh, a nice lady."

Chuck slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door, obviously still angered. "I agree with Ned." She shot Emerson a look to which he scoffed. "I mean I know when a woman is in love," She paused to slip her hand into the green rubber glove that hung from the plastic partition that divided the front seat in half and reached out for Ned's hand, taking it in hers. "And that is a woman in love." She smiled, gazing at Ned. Ned gazed back and squeezed her hand through the plastic barrier. Emerson groaned loudly. "That's a woman who would have never, ever harmed her husband."

"I agree." Ned smiled goofily and Emerson groaned once more as the car drove off into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Olive's eyes darted to and fro, sweeping across the perimeter of the Pie Hole, scanning it nervously. This gave her the appearance of one of those ridiculous looking cat clocks, minus the swinging tail pendulum, as she idled behind the counter ready to run at the slightest sight of Trevor Trask Jr.**

She wiped the counter, paying no attention to the morning customers seated there, but keeping full attention on the door should he appear once again. This time she was ready and would not let him enter without her knowing. Perhaps she was a bit too jumpy; when she heard footsteps behind her she let out a stifled squeal and fell to the floor, only to see it was just Ned carrying a fresh pie out to the display case.

"Olive?" Ned stopped in his tracks to stare at her as she crouched behind the counter, holding the dishrag over her head as if somehow it was to protect her. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, heh." Olive turned a bright shade of crimson as she stood up and removed the rag from her head. "Oh, um, no not really." She laughed, trying to play off the strangeness of the situation. "I thought I saw a mouse." She lied, whispering so that none of the patrons would hear and think that the Pie Hole was unclean.

Ned looked dubious as he placed his latest confection in the glass case. "Uh huh. Don't people usually jump _up_—like on a chair—when they see a mouse, instead of dropping to the floor?" He whispered back.

"Uh, did I say mouse? I meant bee, yep bee. They fly." Olive said quickly. "Yep, I had to duck to avoid it. Missed me by this close." She smiled, pressing her finger to her thumb.

Ned snapped the glass case door shut and whipped off his apron, tossing it aside. "Maybe you can see if anyone needs anything?" He suggested, trying his best to change the subject. "I'll be over there if you need me." He nodded his head over to the booth where Chuck and Emerson were seated before walking off to join them.

Olive let out a sigh and pressed herself up against the wall. Her nerves were as such that right now it was the only thing keeping her body upright, as her legs were wiggly as gelatin. She was quite embarrassed she had let herself act this way, that she let Trevor have an impenetrable hold of fear on her.

When her nerves subsided she put on her best smile and began chatting up the customers seated at the counter. While asking what type of pie one would like she heard the tinkle of the door as it swung open. Instinctively she looked in that direction and felt her whole body go cold.

There he was, as ugly as ever. His dark hair was slicked back revealing the beady eyes she so vividly recalled. He was also still wearing a ridiculous green bowtie, visible from underneath a heavy wool blazer. Olive let out a silent squeal and fell to the floor once more. She could hear his footsteps inch closer and closer to her on the parqay floor. Holding her breath all she could hear was the clinking of silverware against china and the muted laugh of Chuck from a few feet away. Then after a minute or two she heard retreating footsteps and the tinkle of the door as it opened once more.

Gathering her composure, she slowly lifted herself upwards until the tops of her eyes were the only part of her visible above the countertop. She took a quick glance around to see that the coast was clear. He was indeed gone, and as she climbed to her feet she found, yet again, another postcard lying on the counter. The customers seated there all gave her the strangest of looks, but she was more concerned with her narrow escape to care. She grabbed the postcard and dashed over to the booth where the trio was sitting, enjoying coffee and a few slices of pie.

"Is, is he gone?" Olive slid into the booth next to Ned, practically climbing over him to look out the window.

Ned's body grew tense from the close physical contact. "Um, who?" Olive slid away from him and fell back into the seat. "Does this have anything to do with that mouse and or bee from before?" He asked, suspecting something was up.

"Kinda."

Emerson, looking up from his piece of pie, took notice of the look of fear in Olive's eyes. "Wait a minute," His eyes traveled to the window, to where Olive was seated, to the counter and back. "Is this mouse and or bee the same mouse and or bee I was supposed to find before he _found_ foundyou?"

Ned and Chuck looked thoroughly confused.

Olive nodded. "Yep." She tossed the newest postcard on the table. "Guess I won't need your help after all. He already knows where I live and now where I work, so it's inevitable I'll be running into him."

"Wait." Ned said abruptly. "What's going on?"

Chuck leaned forward eagerly. "Who are you talking about?"

"A person from my past I never wanted to see again." Olive sighed. "He came in and left me that. I take it that's about number 9 or 10 by now." She pointed to the card on the table and Chuck reached for it, turning it over in her hand. "He's been sending them to me all week."

"Emevollliwuoy?" Chuck read out loud. Her eyes squinted as she pondered its meaning. "That's odd—what does it mean?"

Olive shrugged.

Chuck flipped over the card and smiled. "This looks like a nice place. I take it has some significance for you?"

"Yes it's where I trained to be a jockey."

"So wait a minute," Ned interrupted. "the person who gave you this is someone from your jockey past, but someone that seeing again bothers you so much that you would go so far as to hire Emerson to keep him from you?" Ned looked back to Emerson for answers.

"Hey I know about as much as you do." Emerson replied. "Which is nothing." He stared in Olive's direction and squared his jaw. "I think it's time you filled us in on what's really going on with this guy."

Olive sighed. Now that there was nothing short of fleeing town that would keep her from eventually meeting up with Trevor, there was really no need for secrecy anymore. It was time to let them in on all the embarrassing details. "He's my ex."

The three of them sat in a stunned silence. Ned looked particularly taken aback and after a moment Emerson laughed. "I've heard of desperate measures taken to avoid an ex, but this is ridiculous."

"Oh." Chuck said. "I guess things didn't end well then?"

"Not really. It ended with me breaking off our engagement, so I guess that doesn't qualify as ending well."

"You were engaged?" Ned choked.

"Yes, a long time ago." Olive shuddered. She hated to talk about it, but knew she had to. Olive hoped that if she got it all off her chest, it somehow might make things better.

"About ten years or so."

Chuck looked quite intrigued. "And now he's shown up after all these years?"

Olive nodded, wondering what the reason was for his sudden appearance in her life.

"Well I think it's sweet." Chuck smiled. "One toe this side of stalker—but sweet nonetheless." She giggled. "I mean it's obvious that he still cares for you. So much that he didn't stop thinking about you all this time. Knowing that one day, somehow, someway, you would reconnect." Chuck sighed.

**Olive Snook realized that the dreamy expression in Charlotte Charles' eyes was probably brought on by thinking about Ned. She did her best not to roll her eyes bitterly**.

"Maybe you two can get past the whole broken engagement thing and…"

"No!" Olive said a bit too forcefully; her and Trevor were definitely not like Chuck and Ned. There was no yearning to reconnect on Olive's side. "I mean," She regained her composure. "There's nothing to get past, nothing to get over. I just never want to see him again. Ever."

Chuck looked confused and Ned and Emerson wisely stayed out of the conversation, instead staying quiet observers. "What happened then, between you two?"

**Olive readied herself to tell the tale she rarely told**.

"I met Trevor Trask Jr. at the track I trained at—he was the owner's son. To be blunt, from the first moment I met him I couldn't stand him."

"Well, some of the best romances start out that way." Chuck wagged a finger in her direction. "Just consult any chick flick for reference."

"No, No." Olive shook her head.. "It wasn't like that. I literally couldn't stand him. Everything he did made my skin crawl, his voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and all I ever felt for him was a mixture of pity and disgust until…."

"Until you fell in love?" Chuck smiled.

Olive was horrified. She refused to believe she ever felt such a true and powerful emotion for him. "It wasn't love….it was more of an infatuation. "I can't explain it." Olive looked at Ned and Emerson. While Ned looked typically uncomfortable, as he usually did whenever Olive discussed her personal life, Emerson was quietly picking at his pie with his fork. He had clearly lost interest in her story once he found Trevor was just an ex and nothing more. "One day I saw him in the stables and suddenly the only thing I could think about was him—wanting to be with him. Everything I once hated I adored. The more I was around him the stronger the feelings grew…until one day we were engaged."

"Hmm," Chuck reached for her coffee and took a long, slow sip. "Must be pheromones." She said thoughtfully.

Ned raised an eyebrow. "Pheromones?"

"Undetectable scents we give off to attract the opposite sex. He must have been chock full of pheromones."

**Olive highly doubted it was pheromones; instead she liked to blame the sudden attraction temporary insanity.**

"Soon after getting engaged," Olive continued. "I turned pro and my jockeying career took off. I was apart from him more and more, and pretty soon I found that my feelings for him faded away. It was as if I had never had those feelings at all."

"Well, people do grow apart." Ned said quietly.

"Yes. But whenever I saw him again it was like—bam!" She pounded her fist on the table which rattled the dishes. This got Emerson's attention. "Those feelings came rushing back and I couldn't control it. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't…" She trailed off; unable to vocalize the strange, intense way she felt when she was around Trevor. Words didn't seem to do it justice. "It was like the feelings had come back from the dead. Do you know what that feels like?" She glanced around the table. "When something you thought was dead and buried just pops back up and…"

Chucks cheeks flushed a bright pink while all the color drained from Ned's face as he let out a nervous chuckle. Emerson looked back and forth between them, enjoying their obvious discomfort; obvious to everyone but Olive, who was too distressed to notice. "We get it." He replied. "Trust me, we all get it."

"Well, I couldn't stand it. I hated feeling so….so….powerless." She moaned; finally she had found the perfect way to describe it. "So I broke it off. But Trevor's very persistent…"

"Obviously." Chuck nodded.

"And no matter how many times I told him we were over, he just kept popping back up in my life through the years. But when my horse Pie died and I quit the jockeying world, I told him I was leaving to do missionary work in Africa…"

Emerson snorted.

"I never wanted to see him again." Olive sighed and slouched over the table, resting her head in her hands. "And I thought it was the perfect escape. I have no idea how he found me."

Chuck reached out and touched her arm reassuringly. "Tell you what, if he shows up here again we can tell him he's made a mistake and that you're still in Africa."

Olive smiled. "Thanks."

**But Olive Snook was not in Africa doing missionary work as she had told the man she never wanted to see again. She was sitting in the Pie Hole. And as she sat in the Pie Hole, talking about the man she never wanted to see again, that man came strolling in through the front door.**


	8. Chapter 8

**There he was, Trevor Trask Jr., in the Pie Hole twice in one day. Before she had a chance to think, Olive found herself sliding down her seat until her tiny body had fell to the floor.**

Disappearing from sight under the table, Olive tugged at Ned's pant leg. "Don't let him find me—make him leave!" She whispered. She saw a pair of man's shoes approach their table and tugged silently on Ned's pants again, hoping he would heed her plea.

"Excuse me, I am looking for someone and I was wondering if you could help me."

The skin on Olive's bare arms prickled as she heard Trevor's voice. It was just as she'd remembered, dull and lifeless.

"Sure—uh, I mean, no." Ned fumbled as Olive tugged again at his leg. She prayed that they all would remain calm and lie convincingly. "What I mean is that I'd like to help you, but I don't employ a waitress."

"How did you know I was looking for a waitress?"

**Even though Olive loved the Pie Maker, in that moment she could have throttled him.**

"Uh, I…." Ned had jumped the gun and tried to recover quickly. "Oh, I just assumed you needed a waitress, to take your order of course." He gulped. "But I don't have a waitress here, sorry."

"Oh really? I was under the impression you employed a Miss Olive Snook."

"Olive Snook?" Chuck piped up, her voice calm and smooth. "Oh, I remember her. Yeah she worked here a few months ago, but she left to go back to Africa and complete her missionary work."

"Yeah, of course. Yeah, she's in Africa." Ned added. "Working with the, uh, Abuduba tribe. Setting up irrigation ditches and stuff." He coughed nervously and Olive groaned. She didn't realize he was so terrible at lying; if he didn't keep his mouth shut the jig would be up.

"Olive Snook?" She heard Emerson pipe up and smiled, knowing he wouldn't have trouble keeping his cool. "Yeah she's not here…." He grumbled and Olive breathed a sigh of relief. "_She's under the table_." Emerson thumped the table causing her to jump.

**The jig was up.**

Olive was left with no other choice—since there was no escape door under the table— but to do the dreaded crawl of shame. So, on all fours she crawled across the floor until she was faced with the tips of his shoes. Trevor towered over her and it made for quite the odd picture as she smiled up at him. "Boy, you go looking under the table to find your contact lens and everyone thinks you've left the country!" She let out an anxious giggle and turned towards the trio, brushing them off with a wave of her hand. "You guys are a bunch of nuts!" She turned back to Trevor and pretended to pop something into her eye. "Lucky for me though, I found it!" She let out another round of hyper laughter. "Trevor Trask as I live and breathe." She reached out and playfully punched him on the shoulder. It was either act ridiculously happy or run for the exit screaming. For some reason—perhaps because she found her feet glued to the spot—she chose to stay. "Whatcha'doing here?"

"I've come here to see you." He replied, ignorant of Olive's fake cheer.

"Oh, well, that's obvious." Olive grabbed his arm, steering him towards the counter where they could talk in private. "I'll be right back in one second and we can talk, okay?" She instructed him to sit down, and before he could respond Olive had charged back towards Emerson. "_Why did you to that_?!" She hissed, ready to jump across the table and exact revenge.

"You," He said, pointing his fork at her. "Need to go and talk to him. You need to tell that loony tune to leave you alone before you call the cops on his ass."

**Olive realized Emerson had a point; even though his revealing her seemed cruel, she knew she couldn't hide in Africa—a.k.a. under the table—forever. And that's exactly what she would have to do if she never faced him**.

So without another word, only a deep breath to calm her nerves, Olive turned and headed for Trevor. He was leaning up against the counter casually, as if there was nothing remotely odd about the whole situation. As she approached him his beady eyes swept her up and down, and he leered at her, making her want to sprint in the opposite direction

"Hello Olive."

"Hey Trevor." She replied, her mind racing. This was it, the time she would find out exactly what he wanted from her.

"I realize that my showing up here might be a bit of a surprise."

"Oh yeah," Olive shrugged. "_Big surprise_. Not that those, oh, ten million postcards you left everywhere didn't tip me off or anything."

"I detect sarcasm in your voice, did I displease you?

Olive studied him for a moment; she still could not wrap her mind around how his eyes and smile could betray such arrogance, yet his mannerisms were so bland and unassuming. It was quite the perplexing combination. "Yes." She sighed.

"Well, I'm sorry. I thought you would enjoy them. After all it's always nice to see that someone is thinking of you."

Olive groaned; he was persistent alright, and also oblivious. Only Trevor could have mistaken what he did for some sort of thoughtful gesture. "Well, I didn't. It was creepy. I mean, I wasn't exactly expecting to ever see you again, and one morning I wake up and you're stalking me—through the mail no less! How did you even find me in the first place?"

Trevor gestured towards the stools, as if asking permission, and took a seat. "Well, it's a very interesting story. I found myself driving through this lovely town one day when in my rearview mirror I saw you."

"Me?"

"Yes. Well, I was so surprised I almost crashed my car. I saw someone who looked just like you walking up to a house with a box in hand."

Olive knew it must have been one of her daily pie deliveries to Chuck's aunts.

"But I had to be sure, so I parked across the street to get a good look when you came out. Imagine my surprise when I saw that it really was you—back from Africa at last."

"Heh, imagine that." Olive laughed nervously.

"After that I followed you back to the Pie Hole and then back to your apartment building. That was all. I would hardly call that stalking."

"That's the very definition of stalking!" Olive argued, feeling a surge of confidence. In the past, whenever he had popped back into her life, she found her resolve would crumble immediately. But now she felt different, strong and determined to get rid of him once and for all. "Listen," She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I don't know what you want. I don't know why you're suddenly back in my life, but I don't want you bothering me anymore. No more postcards, no more showing up announced. No more showing up at all." She huffed and turned her back to him. As she began to walk away she heard him call out.

"Olive, I'm sick."


	9. Chapter 9

Chuck watched Olive and Trevor from a distance. They seemed to be getting along rather well despite the fact that Olive had wanted nothing to do with him. In the last fifteen minutes Olive had gone from walking away from him—looking very angry—to the two of them lingering at the counter, speaking in a seemingly friendly manner. She had even served him a piece of pie. It was all rather confusing.

**Being the optimist she was, Chuck saw these actions as proof that this mysterious man could not possibly be as terrible as Olive described him to be. So when she saw Olive slip into the kitchen, her curiosity finally got the better of her and she excused herself from Ned and Emerson and went over to say hello. She was determined to give this man a chance, but when she met the man named Trevor Trask, she found that to be nearly impossible.**

"Hello." She said brightly, taking advantage of an empty stool beside him. He turned to look at her and Chuck couldn't help but be surprised; somehow she hadn't noticed it before, but on closer inspection she saw he was quite ugly, definitely not someone she thought Olive would go for. Not that she thought Olive a snob, but that he was just so unusual looking—with his meek appearance, rail thin frame and greasy hair—that it was hard to ignore. "My name is Chuck, I'm a friend of Olive's" She jerked her head toward Olive, who was now busy in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess Ned had left behind. "I hear you're an old friend of Olive's too." She nodded, prompting a response, but he simply stared back at her, his dark eyes blank and unblinking.

"Yes." He finally said after an extended silence.

His eyes swept over her and Chuck was quite revolted despite herself. She had wanted to give this man the benefit of the doubt, but something about him she found unsettling and his smile was neither friendly nor genuine. Suddenly Chuck understood why Olive was repulsed by him. "I see." Chuck smiled weakly. "I hear you knew her back when she was a jockey."

"That's correct." He answered, returning his gaze back to the piece of pie on the plate in front of him. He picked at it methodically with his fork.

"And that your father owned the track she trained at?"

"Yes he did."

"Did you ride horses too?"

"No." He turned looked at her once more, and for the first time he said more than three words. "They're horrible, stinky animals. Plus they sleep standing up…..that's _weird_." His beady eyes squinted and his nose crinkled as if he had smelled something foul. "They kick too."

"_I would probably kick you too if I was a horse."_ Chuck thought, her confusion growing. She could see how someone like Olive could get past the superficial—after all love was supposedly blind—but for Olive to have loved a man who seemed to revile horses was made no sense at all. So with a smile she excused herself to the kitchen to talk with Olive. "Hey," She walked up to Olive and gently grabbed her arm as she wiped down the floury mess from the countertop. "Did I miss something?" She asked incredulously, flicking her eyes toward Trevor.

"What do you mean?" Olive asked, swiping the rag back and forth erratically. Her voice was strained—tense and definitely irritated—and everything about her seemed flustered. It was apparent she was not happy about the situation. This confused Chuck even further.

"I don't understand. One minute it seems like you'd rather be raked over hot coals then see this guy. Now you're all chummy?" Chuck reached out to place a comforting hand on Olive's shoulder, but Olive dodged it and began scurrying around the room, tossing dirty dishes into the sink.

"I wouldn't exactly say that."

"You served him pie. Tart apple—the best of the day. That's chummy in my book."

"That doesn't mean anything. That's simple Pie Hole ettiquette. I'd treat any customer the same way." She called over her shoulder, slamming a bowl into the sink. "Give 'em the best pie ya got--there's no chumminess implied. None."

"Olive, you're avoiding." Chuck warned. "You can't bottle things up, it's not healthy."

"I'm not bottling. There is no bottle and nothing to put in said bottle."

"What would you call it then?" Chuck asked, still watching as Olive whipped about; it was clear something was bothering her, and after a minute Chuck thought she understood. "Wait a minute. Is this that whole—bam!—thing?" She whispered, making a fist. "Are your feelings are back again?"

Olive came to a sudden halt. "No—_no_." She insisted, shaking her head vigorously. Her whole face drained of all color at the mere mention of it. "No."

"Well, that's' good." Chuck looked back towards the counter where Trevor was still eating his pie, unaware they were talking about him only a few feet away. Just looking at him was enough to make Chuck's stomach turn. "So why is he still here then?"

"Well, I can't exactly kick him out." Olive leaned against the wall, craning her neck to look at him through the kitchen window. "He sorta needs someone to talk to right now."

"Is something wrong?"

"He's sick."

"Sick?" Chuck replied. He looked rather healthy to her, but she supposed it was impossible to tell just on appearance alone.

Olive nodded solemnly. "He told me the whole story. He was driving through town for an experimental treatment when he saw me on the street. That's how he found me. Anyways, he said he wanted to reconnect with me before he….before he….before…."

**This was a most unexpected turn of events, and immediately Chuck understood why Olive had a change of heart towards the man named Trevor Trask—why she had even served him tart apple pie. No matter how much Olive detested him, her heart was too big to deny him in his time of need. And since Chuck had much experience with death and reconnecting with loved ones, she too now felt a sadness for the strange man**.

"It's fatal?" Chuck asked, already anticipating the answer. Olive simply nodded, confirming her suspicions. Chuck was moved by the genuine sadness in Olive's eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"That's alright. I'm fine." Olive shrugged, and Chuck found it hard to believe everything was fine, but wasn't willing to argue about it. Olive had been through enough. "Oh, look—he's done with his pie. Maybe he wants another piece."

Olive scurried out of the kitchen and Chuck followed. She stayed a few feet behind, watching from a safe distance where she wouldn't intrude, nor feel Trevor's creepy stare. She watched as Olive served Trevor another piece of pie, smiling with a smile so tight and forced that her face squished up into bizarre caricature of itself. She was obviously uncomfortable, and Chuck went over to lend her support. When she approached the pair she heard a strange sound—a jumble of indiscernible words said in a rhythmic fashion that was barely audible above the other noises around her. It took a minute to realize that Trevor's lips were moving.

"What's that you're saying under your breath?" Chuck asked.

"What?" Trevor's head snapped up and for the first time Chuck saw a real emotion register in his eyes. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"Oh, you noticed the mumbling." Olive said, plopping a dollop of whipped cream on top of his pie. "I'm sorry, I mean the _chanting_."

"Chanting?"

"Trevor here is a Buddhist. He does these chants. He says it helps keep him spiritually clean and centered. Does 'em all the time—ever since I've known him."

**This was yet another unexpected turn of events, and Chuck was now even more taken aback by the mysterious man. He was quite the puzzle indeed.**

"You're Buddhist? That is so interesting," Chuck leaned forward, feeling a renewed interest in him. "I've always wanted to know more about the religion." Her eyes searched his face, and she saw a strange flicker in his dark eyes—a look that said _leave me alone_—but Chuck pressed further. "I read something about it years ago, and I can't remember, are their four noble truths or five?" Trevor said nothing and began to dissect his newest slice of pie, his fingers drumming against his fork. Chuck still was undeterred, after all she was used to his seeming indifference to talk to her. "And then there was the whole Noble Eightfold Path and," She paused for a moment. "I never really understood—is enlightenment the same things as nirvana?"

Trevor put his fork down and looked at Chuck once more. His eyes were still dark and threatening, but he was smiling cordially. "Those are all very important questions." He said and stood up abruptly. "Which we can discuss later—I must be going." He glanced down to where a gold watch rested on a delicate wrist. "I forgot have a treatment to go to."

"Oh—of course. That's more important."

For the first time Chuck suspected the smile on Olive's face was actually genuine as she smiled goodbye and watched him walk to the door. "Bye Trevor." Olive called cheerily, as if her words could will him faster out the door.

**As soon as the door to the Pie Hole swung shut behind him, Olive came back to life. The spark in her eyes was sparkling, the spring in her step was springing—it was like a weight had been lifted from her tiny shoulders. But as Olive was grinning, Chuck was brooding. There was something strange about the man called Trevor Trask. Yes, his appearance and manners were alarming enough, but it was something more—something intangible—that bothered Chuck. Yes, she understood why Olive wanted nothing to do with the man…but the bigger question was what in the world made Olive fall head over heels for him in the first place.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Olive Snook had been through some moral dilemmas in the past—wear fur or faux, SUV or hybrid, and then there was the whole decision if she should expose the girl named Chuck to Ned for faking her own death—but this was a whole other thing. For the man she hated most in the world was back in her life because it was his dying wish to see her again. So she had to choose. Deny a dying man or send him on his way. Truth be told, Olive Snook was a tad flattered, but mostly she was scared. Because even though—much to her relief—she felt nothing of a romantic nature upon seeing him, she could not help but dwell upon when the fateful moment would hit her. The fateful moment when she _would_ feel something of a romantic nature for the man called Trevor Trask. But as much as the thought terrified her to the very core, she did what she always did. She made the honorable, if difficult, choice.**

Olive watched as Ned, Emerson and Chuck walked out the front door of the Pie Hole, off to continue investigating their case. As they filed out the door Chuck cast her one last sympathetic look. Olive sensed that Chuck finally understood why she so disliked Trevor, and that in her short time speaking with him, came to dislike him as well. The notion made her feel slightly better. After all, with Trevor it didn't take much time for people to dislike him. It was a certain unique quality only he possessed.

With a heavy heart she grabbed the dishrag and began to swipe away at the counter, clearing the crumbs from Trevor's pie, wishing he too could be cleared from her life as easy as a flick of her hand.

**The trio drove off, leaving Olive alone to stew in her thoughts at the Pie Hole. Chuck also stewed in her thoughts about the unlikely pair. Or rather, she talked about it continuously, and rather loudly, much to Emerson's dismay.**

"I just don't get it." Chuck complained, staring out the window. "I don't see how a guy like him got a girl like Olive. What in the world did she see in him?" Chuck leaned forward over the seat; she was relegated the back seat of the car as Emerson insisted on sitting up front to discuss the case with Ned. That, however, turned out to be particularly difficult due to Chuck's constant interruptions.

Emerson, who was in the middle of giving Ned directions to the home of one of the first suspects on Mrs. Hawk's list, stopped to shoot her an annoyed look "I dunno. It's one of the mysteries of life. Like why dogs pee on fire hydrants and why yawns are contagious. Why you come with us to investigate murders when you are just one big, yapping distraction." He refocused his attention to the list in his hand and gestured to Ned. "That street right there. Take a left."

"He has this blank stare that gives you the creeps," Chuck continued her tirade against the mysterious man. "And trying to get him to talk is like pulling teeth. He's cold and distant and he's just so….so…" She sighed, trying her best to find the right way to describe him. So many adjectives came to mind, but she could only verbalize one. "_Weird_."

"Isn't that a bit judgmental?" Ned asked, taking his eyes off the road to look back at her for a second. "I mean, you don't really know him. I'm sure he's not that bad. Some people aren't great at making first impressions." Ned stuttered and looked slightly wounded; it was obvious that he was referring to himself and that he found Chuck's insults a slight against weird people everywhere—mostly him and his own weirdness.. "But then you take the time to get to know them and you realize they aren't weird at all. There delightfully eccentric and fascinating…."

"But you didn't meet him Ned. You have no idea" Chuck insisted, too absorbed in the moment to realize the hurt in Ned's eyes. "There's something so off about him." Chuck slunk back into her seat. To her this was a more intriguing mystery than another murder, no matter how gory. "I just can't put my finger on it. Well, besides the obvious."

"Anyways," Emerson cut her off, waving the list in the air. "Let's not forget we are on a case here. That's the more important thing—_not_ Olive's love life. A man has died."

"Yeah, and you want to get paid." Chuck scoffed.

"Damn straight." Emerson chuckled proudly. "Take a left there." Emerson pointed at a small side street they were approaching and Ned grabbed the list from his hand.

"I thought our first suspect—Vidalia Monroe—lives on the other side of town?"

"She does. But Oswald Cork lives a few streets over."

"Oswald Cork?" Ned asked. His eyes scanned the list. "That name isn't on her list. He wasn't at the party."

"No," Emerson reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a small business card with the words _Mr. Oswald Cork, Licensed Psychotherapist_ inscribed upon it.. "But he is a colleague of the late Mr. Hawk. And word has it that Mr. Cork has put up a reward of fifty-thousand dollars for the arrest of the killer."

Ned could see the wheels turning behind Emerson's eyes. "You have a hunch?"

Emerson nodded his head. "I have a hunch."

"I've got a hunch too." Chuck sighed, springing forward once more to lean over Emerson's shoulder. "There's more to Trevor Trask that meets the eye." She nodded, a determined look in her eyes. "And I am going to get to the bottom if it."

"Let's get to the bottom of this first." Emerson groaned, pushing her away. "Now," He said to Ned. "My hunch has to do with the fact that sometimes people overcompensate when they feel guilty…."

Ned knew exactly where he was going with this. "You think he is responsible? That he's putting up such a big reward because he killed him and feels guilty?"

"Or because he thinks it's a nice distraction. Surely the man who puts up the reward couldn't have done the crime."

**So the trio sped down the dusty side street, headed off to confront Mr. Oswald Cork. It was a small detour from their planned itinerary for the day; and just as they pulled to a stop in front of his house, Chuck's mind took a small detour from the thoughts that had been consuming it since she had encountered Trevor Trask**.

Chuck leaned forward again over the front seat, but this time much more carefully. She caught Ned's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Oh, and _you _are not weird." She smiled, her mind finally clear to realize her earlier faux pas. "You are delightfully eccentric and fascinating." She nodded with approval, and Ned met her back with a smile of his own.


	11. Chapter 11

"Well, the cherry-berry is great today, as is the orange-lemon meringue. But I see you as more of a chocolate espresso cream." Olive leaned over the counter, flashing a bright smile towards the handsome man who was mulling over the menu. He was a nice bit of eye candy and a welcome distraction from the day she had been having so far. Actually, with Trevor gone her day was beginning to perk back up.

"I strike you as a chocolate espresso cream, do I?" He asked back, his eyes twinkling flirtatiously.

"Yes you do. I can tell a lot about a person by the pie they choose. I can also choose the perfect pie for a person just on looks alone." Olive shrugged. "It's a gift."

"Impressive." The man smiled, his eyes sweeping her up and down appreciatively.

"So, the question is, do you wanna play it safe with apple ala' mode? Or find your pie soul mate in a slice of chocolate espresso cream?"

"Well, you're the pie expert. I'll leave it in your very capable—and very cute— hands."

**Olive felt herself blush and her spirits soar as she reached for the chosen pie from the case. This was exactly what she needed she thought as she cut through the mound of whipped cream down into the crust with gusto. The attention of a normal man—albeit she would rather have the attention of the Pie Maker, whom she loved—but it was better than any attention from Trevor Trask. Anything was better than that.**

Olive decided to flirt back with the handsome stranger and raise her spirits even higher when she saw an equally attractive woman slide into a stool next to him, greeted by a "Hey honey" and a kiss on the cheek.

**Olive's spirits sank with a whoosh as she plopped the generous serving of pie onto his plate. And they sank even further as she cut a less than generous slice for his companion. As the couple dug in and Olive zoned out, adrift in a sea of self pity and disgust for taken men who flirt brazenly with waitresses, she heard the front door swing open. Hoping it was the gang returning from their investigation she looked up hopefully, only to be met with the sight of Trevor Trask once again.**

"Enjoy the pie!" Olive said hastily to the customers as she turned and made a beeline for the kitchen, hoping to avoid him altogether. "Why is he back!?" She moaned. Olive debated making a mad dash out the back door, but realizing that her leaving when the place had customers and a full, unattended cash register would make Ned's head explode with anger, she decided against it. While wondering if she should hide in the walk in freezer or the strange room Ned kept the dead fruit in she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder. Her body immediately tensed; it was too late, and she closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

"Hello Olive."

"Hey there Trevor." Olive turned around slowly. She tried to remain calm, but her voice squeaked and she suddenly felt nauseous. She had no idea why he had returned, but she had a bad feeling about it. "Ya back for another piece of pie? Heh, well that's pretty common here at the Pie Hole. Pie's so good people come in and before the door hits them on the way out they're back in for another slice!" She rattled off. "But they usually wait out there in the dining room…"

"Olive," Trevor interrupted her. "I don't want pie."

"You don't?" Olive gulped, taking a step backwards.

"No." Trevor took a step forward. "I was waiting outside until the others left."

"You were?" Olive took a step back and Trevor took another step forward. They continued there awkward dance until Olive was backed up against the baking block and he was mere inches away from her. She reached out and steadied herself on the table top.

"Yes. I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh, well we already talked. Earlier, remember? You said you wanted to reconnect and then we did and you had pie and then you left. Remember?" Olive laughed nervously. "So I don't really know what else there is to talk about. We did our talking, did our reconnecting. We are all reconnected and talked out. Boy my voice is sure sore." Olive rubbed her throat.

"I remember. But I wanted to talk to you alone."

"_Alone_?"

**Olive felt her body paralyze with fear; at that moment she wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Or maybe swallow Trevor. Either way, her eyes darted around for any hint of a distraction, anything to get herself out of this uncomfortably intimate position**.

"Well, we can talk later. You're sick—didn't you say you had a treatment or something?" Olive tried to change the subject, but Trevor looked undeterred.

"Oh, that's not till later. My mistake."

"But still. Maybe you should, uh, lie down or something. You look pale." Olive suggested, realizing Trevor always looked pale.

"I feel fine Olive. In fact, I feel better than I ever have in my life." Trevor reached out and touched her arm.

His dark eyes, which were usually devoid of any emotion, flickered with something Olive couldn't quite place. Or maybe it was a trick of the light. "Must be those treatments," She quipped. His touch made her skin crawl and she sidestepped around him, headed towards the back door. "Glad to see they're working. Which means you shouldn't miss one. So why don't ya head over there now just to be safe. What was the name of that sickness you had again?" Olive rambled quickly, hoping to get his mind on something else, but he did not answer. She didn't care if the place and the cash register were packed, she was ready to run.

"I want you…" Trevor cut her off, moving once again toward her.

Olive's back was now pressed against the back door, her hand idling on the doorknob, ready to make her escape. Even though Trevor had told her he had only wanted to see her again before he died, deep down she had feared he had wanted more than just a reunion—that he wanted her back. Olive was terrified that this was it. That this was the moment all her self control would disappear, like someone flicking a light switch, and that she would inexplicably fall back in love with him.

"…..to spend some time with me." Trevor finished, ignoring Olive's panicked expression, waiting quietly for a reply, his eyes returning to their lifeless state.

Olive felt the tightness in her chest subside and she let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding. "What?" She squeaked, expecting something else entirely. "That's all you want?"

"Yes. I will be in town for a few more days, and I don't know anyone here. I thought we could spend some more time together."

"Oh." Olive didn't know what to say. He didn't want her back, he was simply asking for her company. And as much as she still detested the idea of having to spend time with him, it was preferable than the alternative.

"It's so lonely here." He said quietly.

Suddenly Olive felt something more than disgust for Trevor Trask—she felt pity—as well as surge of embarrassment for her own behavior. For as much as she disliked him she would not wish him—or anyone—to be lonely in his situation. After all the man was dying, surely she could make the sacrifice and spend time with him. "I, uh, suppose you could come visit me in the Pie Hole until your treatments are done." Olive offered quietly, a tiny bit of her still hoping he would decline.

"Yes, that sounds wonderful." Trevor nodded, his eyes sweeping her up and down. "Now maybe I will take another piece of pie." He said matter-of-factly and turned and walked out of the kitchen.

"It's only a few days. I can definitely do this." Olive told herself, trying to boost her confidence. "I keep Trevor company, pump him full of pie, then he goes back home and all is right with the world—I've done my good deed. I can do this. No big deal." But soon she found herself turning her eyes towards the heavens. "Give me the strength to get through this." She pleaded silently as she went out to join him in the dining room.

**And Olive continued to plead to keep her sanity as she cut Trevor a slice of pie and watched him dissect it into equal sized pieces, which he ate counter clockwise, while he chanted his bizarre Buddhist chant in the now deserted Pie Hole.**


	12. Chapter 12

"Well, this is it." Ned announced as the trio stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the large house that loomed before them.

**The house was a Victorian style home—though one could easily mistake its size for that of a mansion—with crumbling paint, large pillars, and a rusted spear-tipped fence encircling its overgrown yard. The Pie Maker had many adjectives to describe it, but he could only verbalize one**.

"This place is_ interesting_." Ned grimaced, noticing the dark, dirty windows and the shutters that barely clung to them as they approached the porch.

"Yeah, it looks like it's the house of a killer." Emerson said, rubbing his chin proudly. "I can already see the money in my pocket. _Hello money_."

"Let's not jump to conclusions just yet." Ned argued. "I mean we don't know anything about this house. And you know how I feel about judging things on first appearance." Ned reached out and touched the large, bronze door knocker, but hesitated to knock it. "It's fine to call it interesting —because it is—but anything more than that is just hurtful to the house."

**Emerson rolled his eyes, clearly aware that Ned was somehow referring to himself through the house as he did through Trevor Trask**.

"Uh huh," Emerson nodded. "But unlike some houses, this house seems to have a pretty thick shell and won't cry like a baby when someone insults it even if they are not talking about that house at all but instead something completely unrelated to the house." Emerson let out a large breath and looked quite annoyed.

"I think it looks like the Adams Family could live here." Chuck giggled, spinning around to get a good view from the porch.

"See," Emerson boasted. "Even Chuck agrees with me….."

"No. I didn't really agree. While technically mysterious, spooky and all together ooky, the Adams family never really killed anyone."

Emerson threw his hands up in disgust. "Let's just get on with this, shall we?" Emerson pushed the door knocker from Ned's hand, slamming it twice on the large, oak door.

**After a few moments the door swung open and the three were met by a short, plump woman wielding a rolling pin like a saber. With a fire in her eyes, and flour in her hair, she looked ready for battle.**

"Who are you? What do you want?" She lunged forward, raising the pin over her head. Her face and frazzled hair gave her the appearance of a startled cat.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Ned jumped back, placing himself in front of Chuck as Emerson did the same. He waved his hands wildly. "We're investigating the murder of Herman Hawk and we're here to ask some questions."

The woman's face dropped, as did the rolling pin. It clattered to the floor, and she stood there dazed, her face as white as a sheet. "I'm—I'm sorry." She said through choked tears. Suddenly she was aware of her appearance and wiped her face. "Come on in." She gestured for them to enter as she fussed with her apron.

Ned bent down and picked up the rolling pin. "Thank you." He handed it back to her. "This won't take much time." As they entered the house, his eyes swept around the dark, empty foyer, in through the dark, empty living room and down the dark hallway. "Is your husband home?"

"My husband?"

"Yes." Emerson leaned forward; producing the business card from his coat pocket, he slid it into her hand. "We heard he was a colleague of the late Mr. Hawk and had put out a reward. We were hoping to speak with him."

"You are." The woman said, her eyes looking at the card. She shook her head and crumpled it into a ball. "That's what you get when you go with a printing company you find in the local Clip n' Save. A _Mr_. instead of a _Mrs_."

"Wait. So _you're_ Oswald Cork?" Ned blinked.

"Yep."

"I think that's great." Chuck smiled, reaching out to shake her hand. "My name is Chuck—a guy's name too. Well, really it's Charlotte but they call me Chuck for short."

The woman seemed a bit taken aback. "I see. Well, no cute nickname here. My parents were just strange. Hated me, I think." She mused.

"Oh." Chuck's face fell.

"Alright, if you wanna ask me questions you have to follow me. I have a pie in the oven so I need to take it out before it burns." She gestured to them to follow, and they did, all the way down a long hallway towards the kitchen.

"See," Emerson whispered. "Her parents hated her. One of the marks of a sociopath."

"But she bakes pies." Chuck took a deep whiff of the air as they entered the kitchen. "Wonderful smelling pies—strike one against her being a killer. Pie makers don't kill."

**An awkward silence passed between the three of them, as the Pie Maker looked at Chuck and Chuck looked at the Pie Maker and Emerson looked between the two of them at the realization of what she had said.**

"Well," She cleared her throat. "Not on purpose anyways." She smiled a reassuring smile.

**But the awkwardness was soon broken as they entered the kitchen. It was brightly lit—cheery even compared to the rest of the house—with sunny cherry blossom dotted curtains blowing in the breeze and bowls of various sizes dotting the flour covered counter. And the smell coming from the oven was heavenly**.

"That smells heavenly." Chuck sighed, taking another whiff. "You know Ned here is a baker too."

"Oh, is he?" Oswald cocked a brow as she slipped on a pot holder. "A baker and a P.I? That's an unusual combination."

"_I'm_ the Private Investigator," Emerson announced. "He is a pie maker, part time assistant." He stressed the word and puffed his chest a bit. "What's unusual is why you almost attacked my assistant here with a baking implement a few minutes ago?"

"Oh, that." Oswald said sheepishly as she pulled the pie from the oven. "I've been a little on the edge since—ya know—happened." She turned to place the golden pie with its bubbling cherry filling by the window.

"Woman tries to kill us. She's distraught over whacking her colleague." Emerson whispered quickly when her back was turned. "_Killer_." He stated matter-of-factly.

"Whacking?" Chuck whispered back. "What is she a gangster now? Of course she is distraught—her friend just got murdered!"

"Distraught because she did it." Emerson spat back.

"I've never had someone close to me be murdered." Oswald turned around and made her way back over to them. Chuck and Emerson snapped to attention. "You get all sorts of wild, irrational ideas running through your head—like what if I'm next." She stopped and started to knead a large clump of dough on the countertop. She reached into a bowl of flour and sprinkled a bit on top. "Anyways, baking always makes me feel better."

"I know how you feel." Ned said sympathetically.

"Do you have a reason to feel like you would be next?" Emerson asked.

"No. That's why I said it was _irrational_."

"So you were a colleague of Mr. Hawks then?" Emerson continued.

"You're the P.I." She quipped. "I thought that you already knew that and that's why you were here?"

"Would you say you two were close?" Emerson volleyed back, ignoring the sarcasm.

"Yes. Very close."

"I see." Emerson was now zeroing in on her like a hawk to its prey. "How close?"

"He was my best friend." She said sadly before quickly turning her back to them. She walked across the room to compose herself.

"See, they were close." Emerson whispered again to Chuck. "Maybe there was an affair that went wrong. Maybe…"

"Maybe," Oswald spun around quickly. "I know exactly why you three are here asking me these questions." She walked back to them and looked them up and down. "Maybe it's because it's my job to be able to read people, or maybe because you two," She gestured to Chuck and Emerson. "Are the two loudest whisperers in the history of time. You're here because you think I killed Herman."

"Did you?" Emerson asked boldly.

Oswald crossed her arms defiantly. "No, I did not." She made direct eye contact with Emerson

"Well it is a bit suspicious…" He began.

"What? That I am offering a reward for the killer of a man that has been my best friend and colleague for over fifteen years? That I would want that person to be brought to justice and be hurt in the same way that they hurt Herman? You find that suspicious?"

"Um." Emerson had nothing to say in return, his smug arrogance squashed by her emotional display.

**Either she was an amazing actress or he had just falsely accused a mourning woman, but Emerson Cod suddenly felt guilty for being so eager to condemn Oswald Cork**.

"No," Chuck slipped around the counter and met Oswald with a comforting hand. "You're just devastated, that's all. I'm sure everyone in this room would do whatever they could to bring justice for a friend." She stroked her arm gently and smiled up at Ned.

"I'm really sorry we came here." Ned waited for Emerson to chime in; after a moment he hit him on the arm.

"Yeah." Emerson mumbled. "Sorry."

"Wait," Oswald sniffed, holding back tears. "Is there anything I can do to help?" She looked back and forth between them all. "Not that I normally would help people who come into my home, interrupt my baking and accuse me of murder—but I'd do anything for Herman."

"Well," Chuck said soothingly, still stroking her arm. "You could give us a better picture into the man that is, er, _was_ Herman Hawk. His work, his friends, anyone who might have had cause to hurt him?"

Oswald nodded and led the group over to the kitchen table. She pulled out a chair and sat down, gesturing for the others to follow suit. "Me and Herman worked together for years. We had a practice downtown—although he did most of his research at his home—where we would treat patients together. I treat patients through general Psychotherapy, while Herman's specialty was Hypno-Pychotherapy."

"His wife mentioned he was a hypnotist." Ned nodded.

"Well, when you say it like that it really doesn't cover the scope of his work." Oswald said, her eyes tearing up again. "He worked to cure people of their fears, addictions or traumas without resorting to medications or other treatments. He believed in desensitization—getting people to face their fears in order to overcome them." She sighed. "He was a genius in the field."

"Was there anyone who might not have had such a glowing description of him?" Chuck asked.

"No." She shrugged. "Everyone loved Herman."

"That's what his wife said." Emerson cut in. "But I find it hard to believe no one could have possibly had a reason to…."

"No." Oswald snapped, her tone icy toward Emerson. "He was a great guy. If anyone disliked him I never knew it."

"Do you know anything about the party he attended," Ned interjected. "It was the last place he was seen alive."

"I know. I heard he was killed coming home from it."

Chuck leaned as close as was safe towards Ned. "But I thought she wasn't at the party?" She whispered.

"I wasn't." Oswald answered. "I was invited but couldn't go."

"Oh?" Ned asked.

"Yes. The pipes burst in the basement and I was up to here," She brought her hand to her chest. "In water in the basement. I guess that's what you get when you buy a dilapidated house and try to renovate it yourself."

"_Oooh."_ The trio chorused at the explanation for the state the house was in.

"But the parties were all the same." She continued. "The same people—a few work friends, a few social friends. Food, drinks and games."

"What kinda games?" Emerson asked, intrigued.

"Oh, the normal. Scrabble, Monopoly, Pictionary." Oswald sighed again. "Herman was really good at Pictionary. Oh and then there was the mind games."

"_Mind games_?" Ned and Emerson choked simultaneously.

"Those were Herman's specialty." Oswald smiled. "He would hypnotize willing guests for fun— make them do silly things. Once he made me think I was Barbara Streisand." She let out a raucous laugh. "Let me tell you I sang _Memories_ all night long!"

"That sounds like fun." Chuck smiled.

"Yes it was." She agreed fondly.

**Sensing this was going nowhere, the Pie Maker decided to wrap it up.**

"Well, once again I'm sorry for you loss." Ned pushed the chair away from the table and stood up. "We'll let you know if we get any leads."

"Thank you. I wish I could be of more help, but really, no one would want to hurt Herman."

**As Oswald Cork led the group back through the hallway towards where they had came, the Pie Maker had a feeling they would get the same glowing appreciation of Herman Hawk from everyone they visited, and that they would be at a loss to find any kind of lead. But as they were about to leave, Oswald Cork asked the one question that changed the course of the investigation.**

"What happened to Herman?" She asked quietly as they filed out onto the porch. "I mean, I know what happened—that he died walking home from the party—but not the specifics." She steadied herself against the door frame and took a deep breath. "I want to know. I _need_ to know."

"Are you sure?" Chuck asked.

"Yes."

"Well, all we know is this," Ned began. He hated to be the one to spill the gory details, but the resolve in her eyes let him know that it was truly what she wanted. "He was tarred and feathered to death."

"Oh my." All the color drained from her face, and her eyes closed for a moment in silent contemplation at the terrible way her friend had met his end.

"By someone who was clucking like a chicken." Chuck chimed in hoping that would somehow make sense or trigger something for her.

"Thank you. I needed to know." Oswald sniffed. As she went to pull the door closed behind her she stopped. "Clucked like a chicken you say?" She called out after them as they retreated down the sidewalk.

"Yes." Ned answered. Maybe this was it, he thought, maybe this would trigger something—anything—that could give them the lead they so desperately needed.

After a few moments Oswald spoke. "If I were you I would talk to Snevel—Richard Snevel."

**And with that, they finally had a lead**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chuck sipped her tea slowly; her body was present at the Pie Hole, but her mind was miles away. For she was busy observing Olive's interactions with Trevor Trask, who had once again graced them with his unnerving presence. Something he had done for over a week now since his first appearance.**

"And this," Olive leaned over the counter and turned the page of her scrapbook. She gestured to a faded photo that barely clung to the page. "Was taken the day I qualified for my first big race." She beamed proudly as Trevor and Chuck, who were seated next to each other in an uncomfortable proximity, looked on. "I won that race too." She sighed contentedly.

"That was Pie?" Chuck asked, pulling the scrapbook towards her to get a better look. A younger and blonder Olive sat atop a chestnut brown horse with cream speckles, smiling with pure joy at the camera.

"Yeah," Olive said quietly, a hint of sadness in her voice. "That was Pie. He was a good horse." She reached out a pulled the photo from the page, cradling it in her hand.

Chuck flipped slowly through the book; each turn of the page revealed snapshots, ribbons, and yellowed newspaper clippings, all memories of Olive's past life. The life she led before she came to the Pie Hole. "This is really great of you to share this with us." Chuck said "I feel like I am really getting to know more about you."

Olive smiled and looked over to Trevor. "Well thank Trevor for that. He was the one who brought it."

"Oh?" Chuck's brow raised and she eyed the man suspiciously. "_He_ made this scrapbook?" The idea gave her the creeps.

"Oh no. It's mine, but he told me I lent it to him back when we were engaged," Olive said casually. "I completely forgot it even existed." She shrugged. "But thanks to Trevor here we all get to see it again." She smiled brightly and reached out to lightly squeeze his hand in appreciation.

**This action set off warning bells in Chuck's head. In little over a week Olive had gone from disgust for the mysterious Trevor Trask, to acceptance, to something resembling a fondness for the man and their shared past together. With the story Olive had told them firmly in Chuck's mind—the story of her inexplicable attraction—this new behavior was worrisome.**

Chuck eyed Trevor, who was doing his best to ignore her. "How nice." Turning her attention back to the book she noticed something strange in the photos. At first she thought it was a trick of the mind, but the more pages she turned and the more photos she saw, it was unmistakable. Sometimes he was fully visible, and sometimes it was either a familiar arm, leg, or swath of black hair, but it was always there—Trevor Trask lurking eerily in the background.

"I remember that day." Trevor said suddenly, reaching for the photo in Olive's hand. "The day you qualified for the big race. I was so proud." He leered at her.

Olive smiled back. "That was a great day."

Chuck snapped the book shut; she had enough of his creepy smile. "I'm sure you would remember." She said coolly. "You seemed to always be around." As Chuck expected, he said nothing and continued to ignore her. Instead he kept his vacant gaze firmly on Olive.

"You know, I would just love another piece of apple crunch." Trevor pushed his empty plate toward her.

"Oh, sure." Olive nodded. "One just came out of the oven a few minutes ago." She headed towards the kitchen. "I'll just go back and see if it's cooled."

Chuck felt the mutual dislike and distrust she and Trevor shared grow in Olive's absence. She knew Olive was giving this man a chance because of some supposed fatal illness, but it still didn't sit right with her. Seizing the opportunity, she decided to do a little digging.

"So how are your medical treatments going?" She took a long, slow sip of her tea. "They must be about over by now. Olive said you would be here for a few days and it's a little over a week now you've been here." She paused and waited for a reaction. Not surprisingly, he continued to stare forward and said nothing. "You must be really anxious to get home." She continued undeterred by his silence. "I know how I get when I am away from home for too long. I get very homesick."

"You like to talk a great deal." Trevor stated. He turned his head and his vacant eyes swept her up and down.

"Maybe it just seems like a lot because you don't seem to like to talk at all." Chuck forced a smile. "Or maybe you just don't like to talk to _me_." Trevor continued to stare at her unblinking and unresponsive. "You never did tell me what the name of your illness was again?"

"You would have never heard of it. It's very rare." He said and turned away from her.

"Try me." Chuck prodded. "I have read a lot of books. I am quite fascinated with rare diseases actually." Chuck had a sneaking suspicion that something wasn't on the up and up concerning his mysterious illness. If Chuck had to bet on it, she would bet that he wasn't even sick at all.

"You're an interesting person." He stated again, his eyes watching as Olive bustled about in the kitchen.

Chuck sighed; he clearly wasn't going to give any kind of satisfying answers and she wasn't willing to give up. Their back and forth exchange had ended in a stalemate.

"So, you're a Buddhist then." Chuck remarked. The first time she had asked him about it, Trevor's eyes had turned dark and threatening. It was the only time his unflappable demeanor seemed to be flapped. "I find that fascinating."

Immediately his brow furrowed and he shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. I am a Buddhist." He answered, offering no further information.

"And that's why you do those chants?" She asked, remembering the strange sounds he had made the first time they had met, and every day since. A mumbling that sounded of nothing but gibberish that he seemed to do at every opportunity. But oddly enough, he didn't seem to do them in Chuck's presence.

"Yes. This has been established." He said, his voice almost growling with annoyance.

This was the most emotion he had ever shown, and it was evident that Chuck's prodding was having an effect on him. Maybe, she thought, if he got riled up enough, he would reveal something about himself. Something she could use to find out why he was really here. "And why do you do those again?"

"I do them so I am spiritually clear and centered. And I do them even more now because of my fatal illness." He returned to his normal, composed self. "So when I leave this earth, I know I lived my one life to its purest." He spoke assuredly, as if this would satisfy Chuck's curiosity and put an end to the conversation.

"Don't Buddhists believe in reincarnation though?"

Trevor's brow furrowed once more. "My one life as _Trevor Trask_, that is." He said through a clenched jaw.

Before Chuck could prod even further Olive returned. "Here you go," Olive interrupted, breezing out through the kitchen with two plates of pie. "Sorry it took so long, I forgot I had a few more I needed to get into the oven for an order." She set a plate in front of Trevor, which he accepted graciously, and one in front of Chuck.

"No thanks." Chuck pushed it away. "I'm not hungry." Chuck's heart was heavy with worry as she watched Trevor smile at Olive and Olive smile at Trevor. The more Olive was around him the more the terrible feeling in her gut grew, and she couldn't stop replaying Olive's story of her mysterious infatuation.

The door bell tinkled and Chuck turned around. Ned and Emerson walked in the door and headed for their usual booth, deep in conversation. Wanting to join them she excused herself, but before she left she turned around.

**Chuck wasn't successful this time, but she knew she would eventually solve the mystery that was Trevor Trask.**

"Do you believe in karma then?" She asked him. "What goes around comes around?" She stared at his back for a few moments until the only response she received was his hand bringing his fork up to his mouth to take a bite of pie.


	14. Chapter 14

"Where have you two been all morning?" Chuck asked as she approached Ned and Emerson, who were chatting away privately in their usual booth. Chuck was keenly aware of the unusual amount of grumpiness evident in her voice, a side effect of dealing with one mysterious Buddhist, and Ned quickly took notice as well.

"What's wrong?" He asked as she slid into the seat across from him and squished up next to Emerson.

"Nothing." She replied quickly. "I was just thinking about the, uh, case and thought you two went out investigating without me." Chuck stopped and sneaked a peek over her shoulder in the direction of Trevor and Olive. They were still at the counter, mutually unaware of everything around them as they stood side by side, discussing something in a most intimate manner.

**Chuck had lied. After all, the last thing Chuck wanted was to seem unnaturally obsessed with Trevor Trask. She tried hard to ignore the feeling gnawing away at her insides, but it was impossible. The gnawing feeling being that Trevor was nothing but bad news.**

Ned sensed her uneasiness and followed her eye line towards the counter. "Is this about what's his face?" He frowned.

"His name is _Trask_. Trevor Trask." Chuck answered without a second thought.

Emerson let out a sigh of frustration and looked her square in the eye. "First off, yes—we _were_ investigating without you." He closed his eyes and smiled, as if he felt a great rush of pleasure from just saying the words. "And secondly," His eyes snapped back open and his smile disappeared. "Our little Olive finally up and got herself a man. Shouldn't you be all like," Emerson's voice went up an octave or two until it was as girly sounding as it could manage, and he snapped his head back and forth with mock attitude. "_you go girl_ and all that crap?"

"He is _not _her boyfriend." Chuck shot back, a bit too forcefully and her response prompted raised brows from both Emerson and Ned.

"You really don't like that guy do you?" Ned asked, a bit taken aback.

**It was written all over the Ned's face—his inability to comprehend why Chuck disliked the man so much. Chuck felt a tiny bit of guilt at this, but after realizing that Ned had spent virtually no time in Trevor Trask's presence and never observed first hand all of his unique quirks, all traces of remorse vanished quickly.**

"I know you don't like me being judgmental—but hear me out." She began. "He's weird, alright? And if you had spent any time with him you would see that too, and not think I am being unfair."

"I don't think that…"

"And he's not weird in a neighbor who has thirty cat's kind of way," Chuck cut him off. "or your high school math teacher who always smells like cheese kind of way. Or even in cute pie maker kind of way." Chuck smiled and Ned grinned shyly. "But in a— _he's probably gonna kill her and make a tuxedo outta her skin_— kinda way." She grimaced.

"He's harmless." Emerson sniffed, observing Olive and Trevor for himself and looking unimpressed. "He's just a love sick old flame who happens to be a tad antisocial and clingy." He took a good look back at both Ned and Chuck. "He'll fit in perfectly around here."

Chuck cast another look over her shoulder at the couple. They were still uncomfortably comfortable with each other and she swore she saw Olive flip her hair in a blatantly flirtatious manner. "I just don't trust him. There are just a lot of things that don't add up about him. And he does these little chants…."

"Harmless." Emerson repeated.

"I don't see how he is harmless." Chuck argued. "Look at how they are together. All close and smiley."

"That's a bad thing?" Ned asked, clearly confused.

"You don't think it's strange?" Chuck asked. "When a little over a week ago she dove under this exact table," She tapped the table top to make her point. "just to get away from him? I mean, Olive said he made her skin crawl. And now…." She gestured back towards the counter. "Close and smiley."

"Harmless." Emerson chanted.

"He obviously has some sort of unnatural effect on her." Chuck spoke confidently, ignoring Emerson's taunting. She knew deep down something was amiss about the situation and couldn't be persuaded otherwise. "And remember, she told us all that stuff about feeling entranced in his presence, as if her feelings are out of her control."

"He's harmless." Emerson repeated once more.

"He worried Olive enough to hire you to find him before he found her. That's gotta mean something."

"And it would, but when I asked Olive myself if he was dangerous she told me no." Emerson replied matter-of-factly in an attempt to win the argument. "He ain't nothing more than an ex—a weird one, I'll grant you that—but you're worrying over nothing."

"Maybe he's right." Ned shrugged. "I mean, maybe Olive actually has nothing more than good old fashioned normal feelings for this Trevor guy. Granted it's not as exciting as witch craft, voodoo, hocus pocus or rigga roodoo."

"Rigga roodoo?" Chuck giggled.

"Just made that up." Ned blushed. "Maybe Olive actually likes this guy and is just...just…"

"Embarrassed that she's got the hots for a dude like that." Emerson snorted. "I mean, if you liked some squirrelly weird little man, you would probably claim you were not in your right mind either."

"Are you saying Olive is lying? That she's just being….snobby?" Chuck asked, exasperated at the thought.

"No. Neither of us thinks she's lying." Ned answered, quite flustered. "Maybe she just exaggerated, that's all."

"Trust me. This," Chuck pointed her finger in Olive and Trevor's direction and crinkled her nose in disgust. "is not about pride or dating below your station. I know the difference between real feelings, like what I have for you, the kind that make you feel all warm and dizzy and wonderful." The pair exchanged sappy smiles. "But that's not what Olive described. She described rigga roodoo. Text book rigga roodoo." Chuck stole another glance at the couple and watched Trevor watch Olive closely as she waited on a customer. His eyes never left her. "As for Olive exaggerating—I just don't buy it."

"Alrighty." Emerson cut in. He started to scoot out of the booth, pushing Chuck along with him. "I have to listen to your romantic troubles on a daily basis, so I sure as hell don't need to hear any more about Olive's. Rigga moo-whatty or not, we've got a case here to solve." Emerson stood up and tapped his watch, giving Ned a look. "And I believe a Mr. Snevel awaits."

"Maybe we should see if Olive wants to come with us." Chuck wondered out loud, not wanting to leave her alone with Trevor any more than necessary.

Emerson wiggled his fingers in the direction of the kitchen. "Why don't you go baby sit her then and leave this to us." He prodded with a grin.

**Chuck debated it for a moment, staying at the Pie Hole, but ultimately realized there was nothing she could do. Even if she was able to keep Olive from being alone with Trevor today, it was no guarantee for tomorrow. So she decided to go with the Ned and Emerson to talk to Richard Snevel, and deal with the mysterious Trevor Trask when the time was right.**


	15. Chapter 15

Ned's car wound down the street, past house after house, until it slowed to a stop in front of a blue colored cottage at the end of a cul de sac. "Here we are. Snevel's house."

**It was a picturesque little house on a quiet street. A white trellis covered in thick ivy framed the front walk and an impressive amount of flowers, bushes, and wild grass dominated the landscape, all shaded by large oak trees. It looked like the residence that could belong to any grey haired grandmother, not a possible tar wielding murderer.**

Chuck leaned over the front seat to get a better look. "What took you two so long to find him?"

"We found him a week ago for your information." Emerson answered. "We just never got to speak to him."

"Oh?"

"No one's been home all week." Ned said. "Emerson drove by this morning and saw that." He pointed to a rusted out red pickup truck parked in the driveway.

"Someone's home now." Emerson grinned.

"Wow." Chuck giggled. "A car in the driveway? You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

**Emerson Cod chose to ignore the good natured poke at his P.I. skills. The man named by Oswald Cork as a possible suspect had been M.I.A all week, but now he was back. It was time to get back to what really mattered in Emerson's life—investigating the death of Herman Hawk and collecting a tidy reward—not Olive Snook's unfortunate choice in men. The very thought made him positively giddy.**

"Let's get on with this, shall we?" Emerson didn't wait for an answer before throwing open the car door and striding eagerly towards the house. Ned and Chuck scrambled to catch up with him, arriving at his side just as he rang the doorbell. After a few moments with no answer Emerson rang it again, but nothing.

Ned peered in through the front window and tried to see past the lace curtains that hung in them. The house was dark and after Emerson hit the doorbell once more, it was obvious no one was going to answer.

Emerson turned around and took a step down off the porch. His eyes scanned the yard and then came to rest on the red pickup truck. "Look," He pointed at the bed of the truck and its contents. "Fertilizer, a wheel barrow, shovels. I think it's safe to say that Snevel enjoys gardening—if his front yard looks like this then imagine the backyard…."

"And it's a nice day…." Ned nodded, catching on.

"So he might be working out back." Chuck finished.

"Come on." Emerson commanded, leaping off the step. The three of them traipsed through the yard around the side of the house, and as they approached the back yard they were met with quite a site. The back lot was very large, and every square inch was being used. From a garden of lettuce, zucchini and other vegetables that blanketed most of the area, to a parcel of freshly tilled soil ready for planting, trees dripping with apples, and even a fenced in area containing three goats—it was a suburban garden utopia.

"Wow." Chuck gasped, taking it all in. "And I thought our little honeybees on the roof made for an impressive operation."

"You're not kidding." Ned agreed, dumbfounded.

"There's not enough hours in the day to handle all of this, let alone concoct and carry out a bizarre murder." Chuck mused, watching as a butterfly drifted by.

"There's always time for murder." Emerson growled defiantly.

**Suddenly, out of the shadows of an impressively large oak tree stepped a young woman. From all appearances she was the mastermind behind the garden that rivaled that of Eden, evident from her dirt stained overalls, dirt stained face, and her dirt stained gardening implement. **

"Excuse me?" She spoke up, startling the trio. "Can I help you?" She smiled politely, holding a garden hoe clutched to her chest.

"Hello," Emerson strode forward. "My name is Emerson Cod and these are my associates." He looked over his shoulder; Ned smiled uncomfortably and Chuck gave a little wave. "We don't mean to trespass but no one answered the front door."

"I'm sorry." The woman smiled, wiping her hands with a handkerchief. "I've been busy harvesting some of my crops." She gestured towards two large bushels brimming with brightly colored produce. "What can I do you for?"

"We were hoping to speak with a Richard Snevel?" Ned asked timidly.

"Richard's out of town visiting family. He won't be back for a few days." Suddenly the woman's eyes narrowed and she stopped to take a closer look at them. "Wait a minute," She said slowly. "This doesn't have to do with his student loans, does it?" Her voice was now tinged with a curt, confrontational quality, and her hands tightened around her gardening tool and lifted it in a threatening way. "I told you guys that Richard lost his job and that he'll make a payment when he can. Harassing us over the phone is one thing, but coming to our home is really crossing the line!"

"No, no!" Chuck shook her head emphatically, ducking behind Emerson. "This isn't about student loans."

"Just put the hoe down lady." Ned whispered under his breath.

"This is about the murder of Herman Hawk." Emerson said gravely.

The woman's face fell and lost all color. She lowered the tool and it almost slipped from her hands. "I heard." She said softly and looked away; her demeanor had changed considerably and she was visibly shaken. "That's awful what happened to him."

"How did you know Herman?" Chuck asked, coming forward.

"Richard was his assistant for two years. Herman hired him straight out of grad school. Richard could have opened his own practice—he is a licensed psychologist—but he hoped to follow in Herman's footsteps, so he took a job as his assistant to learn all he could from him. They were very close. Needless to say Richard is now out of a job, and that stress combined with losing Herman in such a terrible way is making me a little on edge." She smiled sheepishly and laid the garden hoe down. "I'm sorry," She stuck out her hand. "My name is Regina Slade. I'm Richard's fiancée." As she shook Chuck's hand a tiny diamond ring glinted in the sun.

"Oh, congratulations." Chuck smiled, admiring the ring.

"Now what do you want with Richard?" Regina asked, pulling her hand away swiftly. Once again her eyes narrowed and her manner turned cold, businesslike. "We already told you guys everything we know about that night." She said brusquely, waving them off.

"They already interrogated Richard?"

"The police questioned him, as they did everyone at the party. I assume that's standard practice." She replied. "But I'll tell you guys again. I was supposed to meet Richard at the party but I was running late. I sell my produce down at the organic co-op and had some last minute work to do, so I ended up arriving there just in time to pick up Richard and come home. Herman was alive and well the last time we saw him." With that the turned on her heel and started to walk away. "Now I've got eggplant to tend to if you don't mind."

"Excuse me," Emerson said gruffly, charging after her. "But we are not affiliated with the police so we have our own questions so ask."

"Oh? Who are you then?" She called over her shoulder.

"I'm a private investigator, and I was told to talk to Richard Snevel by Mrs. Oswald Cork, who has put up a reward for the capture of Herman's killer."

"Are you saying she accused Richard of murdering Herman?" Regina spun around and stopped in her tracks. "I've known Richard since we were kids, and he has never so much hurt a fly! I cannot believe someone would accuse him of murder!" She cried angrily.

"Whoa, hold on a minute." Emerson took a step back. "She didn't accuse anybody. We just talked to her, and when we divulged one of the stranger aspects surrounding his murder she gave us Richard's name."

"Stranger aspects?"

"The killer clucked like a chicken."

Regina blinked in surprise. "Clucked like a chicken?"

"Yes."

"So, are you saying the murder of Herman was a," She paused for a second. "Murder most _fowl_?" She snorted with laughter, to the surprise of the trio. "Listen, I don't mean to make light of a horrible situation, but what on earth does the killer supposedly clucking like a chicken have to do with Richard? And besides," Her eyes narrowed again in their usual way. "How would anyone know what noises the killer made? It's not like Herman could have told anyone?"

"That's, uh," Emerson puffed out his chest, feigning control over the situation, when in fact he was stumped for an answer. He couldn't say that his associate next to him revived Herman for a little, 60 second post mortem interview. "Classified information. We in the P.I. game have our ways."

"Uh huh." Regina accepted his answer, but still seemed uneasy. After a moment of silence she shrugged. "Well, I guess there could be a reason Oswald named Richard, but it's a bit of a stretch."

"Enlighten us." Emerson prodded.

"Well, maybe it had something to do with his papers."

"His papers?" Chuck asked.

"Yes." Regina crossed her arms; she seemed rather agitated to have to be explaining things, and her words were rushed. "Richard is published in several medical journals. Apparently it's a big thing in the academic world—publish or perish they say." She rolled her eyes. "He wrote and published several papers about animals and the roles they play in mental disorders. It was sort of his niche. Everything from papers on arachnophobia, to his last paper about a group of women in Bali who were convinced they were monkeys."

"Monkeys?" Chuck echoed her. "How fascinating."

"The only reason I could think of for Oswald to give you Richard's name was so he could provide some psychological insight into why the killer would choose to cluck like a chicken." She sniffed defiantly. "Other than that, you're barking—or should I say _clucking_—up the wrong tree." Regina was once again amused by her play on words and began to walk away from them, towards the side of the house. "I really wish I could help more, but like I said, Richard is out of town so you'll have to take my word for it. Now if I can show you out." She waved for them to follow her without waiting for a reply. It was evident her patience had now worn out and she wasn't willing to discuss this any further.

So, reluctantly, Emerson, Ned and Chuck followed Regina. But while heading back the way they came, Chuck felt her shoe land in something squishy and sticky. Lifting up her foot she saw a glob of something black and gooey oozing from the heel of her shoe. "Excuse me, Regina?" She called out, and Regina stopped and turned around. "What is this?" Chuck asked, her shoe now off and in her hand for a closer inspection. The substance had a strong, familiar smell that she couldn't place.

"Oh," Regina said after a moment of squinting to see what the problem was. "That's tar."

"Tar?" Emerson, Ned, and Chuck's heads snapped in her direction so quickly that they could have popped right off.

"Yes." Regina continued and began walking towards the front of the house once again. She seemed quite unconcerned and didn't seem to notice that Emerson was now glaring at her suspiciously and Ned and Chuck were looking at each other, jaws dropped. "It tends to get all over the yard. Working with it's quite messy." She said nonchalantly. "I use it to mend the holes in my oak trees—it's an old gardener's trick. I get lots of woodpecker's back here and this helps close up the holes and drive them off. Not too many people use tar anymore for this—something about trapping in spores and harming the trees or some nonsense—but it always works for me."

"Oh." Chuck bent down to scrape her heel on the grass. "I've heard of that before actually." She slipped her shoe back on and tottered to catch up with them, careful to avoid any other stray patches.

"Yes, well." Regina kept walking until she stopped at the edge of the lawn by the driveway. "If you still need to speak with Richard I would suggest calling first." She remarked, barely able to contain her displeasure. "Have a nice day." She nodded and marched away, making it clear that she, in fact, wished them no such thing.

"Well, I think we found out killer." Emerson said quietly as they headed to the car, careful that Regina was safely out of ear shot.

"Who?" Chuck asked, slipping into the back seat. "Regina?"

"No, not Regina." Emerson slipped into the front and slammed the door shut, Ned following suit. "Snevel." He paused to take one last look at the house before Ned turned the key and drove away. "But it's pretty obvious she knows something. She's all on edge. You saw how angry she got when she thought we were there to collect student loans—she was about to go all gangsta on us!"

"And the way she refused to talk about the murder." Ned added.

"She did seem, in general," Chuck chimed in. "to be pretty protective of Richard as well."

Emerson rubbed his chin thoughtfully." I wouldn't put it past her one bit to be covering for him."

"Well," Ned said. "We have the suspect, we seem to have the murder, uh, weapon, all over the yard. But we still don't have a motive. Why would Snevel kill his boss and mentor?"

"And more importantly, cluck like a chicken?" Chuck pointed out.

"I don't know. But I am certain when we figure that one out, we'll have our motive."


End file.
